Hate is Thicker Than Blood (7 page)

“Hello, Gina,” he said.

“Mr. Lockwood?”

“Call me Bill,” he told her.

She searched his face, and seemed to like what she found there. “I think I might,” she smiled.

They moved down to where the drinks were, scores of filled glasses standing in crushed ice, and he selected an iced tea and
she a lemonade. They seated themselves in an area isolated from the few tables that were occupied at this intermediate hour.

“I took the trolley, and then the subway, and then a cab,” she told him.

“Worried about something?” he asked her.

“About you. I don’t know what you did to Frankie, but he hates you. I wouldn’t want to be the one who led him to you.”

“It’s all right,” The Hook told her. “I can handle myself. And I get the feeling you can, too.”

She blushed. “I’m just a girl,” she said.

“No. More than that,” he told her. “I can see it in your face. You have character. You’re a woman of character.”

“A woman,” she mused. “No one ever called me that before.”

“It’s true, isn’t it?” he asked, and she looked at him and then shrugged, but her expression showed she was pleased.

“How can I help you?” she asked.

“Did Frankie say why he’s angry with me?”

“Not really. Just called you a—” she hesitated. “—a ghoul and a graverobber.”

“Hmm.” He pulled the cellophane off a new pack of Camels, and offered her one. When she shook her head no, he asked, “Do you
mind if I do?” and after she again shook her head, he lit up. She looked uncomfortable, but still lovely. Quite lovely. “Your
brother-in-law has much reason to be angry with me.”

“Why?”

“In a minute. First, do you have any suspicions yourself as to who could have shot your sister?”

“No, none at all.”

“I have reason to believe that more than one person was involved.”

“My brother said there was just one.”

“Yes, I know.” He looked through the cafeteria window, and watched as a trolley car sped by the old Dutch Reformed Church
across the way. “I guess you spend—spent—some time with your sister and brother-in-law. Know them and their friends.”

“Yes. Not as much time as when I was younger, but —yes.”

“There’s a man I’m curious about. Might have hung around their house. Rather big. Husky. Blond hair.”

“I don’t know—” she started to say.

“This one’s easy to recognize. Walleyes.”

“What’s that?” she asked.

“I’m sorry. Walleyes are eyes that turn outward, fixed that way. The opposite of cross-eyes.”

“I see.” She took a sip of the lemonade, lips pursed delicately around the straw. “I’m sure I’d remember if I’d ever seen
anyone like that.”

“I’m sure you would. All right,” he said, leaning forward and lowering his voice. “I’m fairly certain that he killed your
sister.”

She looked at him, helplessly. Her lashes were thick and gracefully curving.

“But I believe he was hired by your brother-in-law.”

Her eyes widened, and moistened. “No,” she said.

“I need your help if I’m going to prove it.”

“No,” she said again, and this time her voice trembled with anger.

“You want to find the murderer of your sister.” His voice was level and cool.

“Yes, of course I do. But Frankie couldn’t have done it.
Didn’t
do it.” She was adamant.

“I wish you could convince me of that. For your sake.”

“Look, I know Frankie couldn’t have done it. He adored Maria. In his own way. See, I know him, I knew Maria. They’re my flesh
and blood. And my blood tells me he didn’t kill her; couldn’t have. My blood knows.”

“I think he hired a gunman to kill her, with that five thousand dollar necklace the payoff.”

“That’s crazy!” she said. “There’s plenty of young punks around who could have done it for that. That’s big money. Plenty
of men have killed for less. And Frankie—well, you know Frankie, he talks big. No doubt more than once he shot off his mouth
about the necklace. That’s how Frankie is. He talks big, and tough, but deep down, where it counts—with family—his heart is
all gold. Solid gold.”

“So you know nothing else.”

“All I know is that Frankie didn’t do it.”

“And that some cheap thief did.”

“Why not? It’s only logical. The only logical explanation.”

The Hook regarded her, took in the dark intensity of her young, trusting eyes. “Yes, it’s logical,” he nodded. Then, “I guess
we’d better go.”

“You first,” she told him. “We shouldn’t be seen together.”

He rose, and as he turned to leave, she caught the tip of his suit jacket in her small, delicate hand. “I want you to understand
this,” she said. “I know you’re wrong about Frankie. But if there’s any way I can help you catch the real murderer, and have
him put away where he can’t harm any more people, if there’s any way I can help you do that, then I will.”

He looked into those large, dark eyes and decided somehow he would try to find a way that Gina could help him. He would have
to find a way, even that way, if it meant that he could see her again.

It was a big funeral. Huge. Plenty of cops, too. Should keep things cool if Frankie Nuzzo happened to spot him.

He’d parked the Cord a few blocks away. No sense flaunting it in Frankie’s face. Even from that distance, the funeral made
its impact; people on the quiet street of small one-family houses hurrying in the direction of the church, little figures
off in the distance melding into the enormous crowd that stood outside, gawking, and weeping.

Even most of the women among the onlookers outside the church were in black, The Hook saw, as he moved into the crowd. The
Nuzzos were big news here, and bad news on occasion. The women took no chances about showing disrespect. The men, perhaps
braver, perhaps less aware, were a more motley crew; some in their Sunday best, others bare-headed, even bare-armed, as they
looked on.

He wove his way in and out of the crowd, moving toward the talkers, listening a while, and then, when it was obvious he’d
learn nothing from them, edging to the next likely knot. It was hot in the sun, and he began to perspire in the crush of it
all, but kept at his job, and finally found himself rewarded.

The two women were conversing, sotto voce, and he avoided looking in their direction, never gave them any reason to fear that
what they were saying was being overheard.

“Maria was playing around. That I know.”

“Come on.”

“Yes, and I’ll tell you something more.”

There was a pause, and The Hook could feel the other woman lean in.

“I think Frankie had her killed.”

“No!”

“Sure. Why not? He found out, and so he had her killed.”

“You’re crazy.”

“Like a fox.”

“Ah, gowan.”

“I’ll tell you this. Sure, maybe I’m wrong about Frankie. But I know Maria had a lover. And I know who it is.”

The church doors opened at that moment, and the crowd surged forward, and rearranged itself. Out of the corner of his eye,
Lockwood got a fix on a woman. She was tall and bold-looking, in her early thirties, dramatic. He’d have no trouble remembering
what she looked like.

Satisfied, he directed his gaze to the funeral procession as it left the church. He looked over the pallbearers. Fish Lomenzo.
Some of his goons. Frankie Nuzzo. Some of
his
goons. Nuzzo looked at him, unseeingly, as he went by, coffin on his shoulder, then again, head snapping back, and then quickly
away. A few steps after the coffin came Maria’s parents, and Gina, looking small against her father, tear-stained but erect
and proud-looking, loyal. For a while, he forgot about business and simply watched her, from the top step all the way to the
bottom, then onto the sidewalk and into one of the big black limousines that awaited the mourners. Lovely.

The crowd was slowly beginning to disperse, a little bit at a time, fragmenting, an island here, an island there, drifting.
He saw his target and watched her as she drew away, chatting for a moment with a couple, stopping briefly to pat a small boy,
then ambling across the street, and down to the next block.

He took his time following her so that anyone trailing him, and he was fairly sure someone would be trailing him, would have
no idea of what he was doing. When she turned into a small wooden home, weatherworn and crumbling, his head never swerved
to follow her, and he kept on the same course, strolling down the street for another six blocks, then turning, and slowly
circling back along another route, as if he’d simply been stretching his legs, or, at most, scouting out the entire neighborhood.

They were waiting for him when he got back to his car. Renza the Stickman, Junior Grosso, Big Angie Russo.

“Goin’ somewhere, scumbag?” Renza asked, his lip in a practised curl.

Lockwood looked at him, and said nothing.

“My frien’ ast you a question,” Grosso told him. “It ain’t polite to ignore my frien’.”

Lockwood directed his cool glance to Grosso, still saying nothing.

“Maybe he’s smarter than we think,” Big Angie offered. “Maybe he’s smart enough to know he’s not goin’ no place. Now.”

Lockwood looked up the block to where the funeral had been. The streets were empty.

“You waited too long to leave, shamus,” Renza growled. “The cops is gone. Long gone.”

The Hook shrugged. These three were a little different from the trio of the night before. Each of them had a hand in his jacket
pocket. Plus something heavier than a hand. Heavy and metallic. “It’s your play, gentlemen. Obviously.”

Renza grunted. “I guess you’re right,” he told Big Angie. “He’s smarter than he looks.” The hand in the suit-pocket jerked
at The Hook. “We’re gonna use your car. Get in, an’ I’ll tell you where to go.”

Lockwood got behind the wheel, and Renza slid in beside him, the gun out of the pocket now, jammed in his side. “Just so you
don’t try nothin’ foolish. An’ if you got any ideas about screwin’ aroun’ wit me, Junior’s sittin’ behind you with a gun pointed
at the back of your seat, right where your spine is put. An’ Big Angie, he’s ready, too.”

Lockwood said nothing but turned on the engine, and waited.

“Turn aroun’. It’s okay. It’s legal to make a U-Turn here,” Renza said, and the two mugs behind him gave short, ugly laughs.

The Hook did as instructed.

“Now straight ahead, till I tell you to turn. An’ remember, any funny business an’ you get it three ways.”

“I take it you’re still Frankie’s boys.”

“Tha’s right. An’ we were frien’s, good frien’s, of Cicci Caminaro an’ German Moscowitz, an’ Tommy Mao an’ Vinnie Riordan.
We owe you, copper.”

Lockwood said nothing, and Junior Grosso leaned into him. “What happened to our friends? We wanta know.”

“I told your boss. They’re making the eels happy.”

The gun at his side dug deeper into his ribs. “Wha’ you mean? Wha’d you do to them?”

Lockwood looked at Renza. “It was a hot day, Stickman. I gave them the opportunity to cool off.”

“Where?”

“Off Van Brunt. There’s a little sidestreet, Kane. Nice little spot to swim. No lifeguards, no rules. You can do whatever
you desire in the water. If you want, you can even take your car in with you. They decided to take the De Soto.”

“You’re lyin’!” This time it was Grosso, voice savage in his ear.

“You don’t have to take my word for it. One of your pals can check it out personally. ‘Fish’ Lomenzo. He’d be a natural.”

Grosso palmed the back of The Hook’s head, hard. “Cut it out!” Renza shouted. “We don’t want nobody spottin’ us. You can have
your fun with him later.”

The Stickman turned back to Lockwood. “Tha’s a very int’restin’ coincidence. Cause where we’re takin’ you is just a few blocks
away from there. You’re goin’ swim-min’, too. We’ve even got a bathin’ suit special made for you. Nice color: gray. Concrete
gray.”

Renza knew the streets, and they passed few people, and no cops. Lockwood drove, and made plans. These guys were cocky, too
cocky. They hadn’t even bothered to search him, knowing they had the drop on him. Sometimes it paid to be cocky. Sometimes
it … didn’t.

They were two blocks away from Kane when Renza ordered “Turn left, and pull over,” and Lockwood obeyed. He had only one chance
out of this, he knew, a slim one, and it would be given to him in just a few moments.

He hit the brakes and the car slowed, and came to a stop. The gun dug into him. “Outta the car.” Renza had his hand on the
passenger side-door, and the other two were stirring behind him.

He threw open the door, and dropped.

Even as he hit the street, the .38 was in his hand, and he was under the car. He heard the noises of Grosso and Russo above
him, and aimed in their direction, firing up through the bottom of the Cord. A scream told him he’d hit paydirt, even as he
got off another shot, this time out from under the car, at street level, splintering Renza’s ankle. He knew he had to move
fast, and hoped he was doing it in the right direction, as he pulled himself to the rear of the automobile, and then out from
behind it. Russo was in the street, back to him, gun in hand. “Russo,” he called, and as Big Angie whirled toward him, he
put one deep into his chest.

Grosso was still screaming, and clutching at his groin, but Renza was out of sight. A shot cracked out, and he caught a glimpse
of the Stickman, firing from the shadows of the entrance to the old warehouse they’d parked beside. He dropped behind the
car and fired once, twice, then broke open the barrel, and swiftly fed in six more rounds.

Grosso had slumped to the floor of the car now, and was moaning softly to himself. The Hook had no real beef against Renza,
but he knew there was no way he could get back into the Cord, dump Grosso, and drive away, without Renza pumping him full
of lead. He’d have to take care of him first.

“Give it up, Renza,” he yelled. “Your boys are done. You’ve got no chance.”

A flurry of shots whistled by him. He fired twice, waited for the answering volley, and then took his chances, and made a
broken-field run to the side of the warehouse, while Renza reloaded. He edged his way to the rear of the building, which faced
onto a deserted wharf. The back door stood open, and he ran up to it, then flung himself inside, pistol ready. From deep at
the end of the building an automatic cracked, and he heard wood split a few feet behind him. Not a bad shot, at that distance.
Either Renza had been lucky, or he was an uncomfortably good marksman. Finger-crossing time.